THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Tuesday, October 3, 1995 TAG: 9510030052
SECTION: DAILY BREAK PAGE: E5 EDITION: FINAL
SOURCE: By DEBRA GORDON, STAFF WRITER
LENGTH: Medium: 67 lines
WE CALL IT the stick-beating gene.
It's what causes your 2-year-old son to pick up a stick and start banging it on the camellia bush, yelling ``Pow, pow, pow.''
Or your 8-year-old to deliberately throw himself over a mud puddle to protect the soccer goal, then revel in the grime.
Or the two brothers to, upon seeing each other for the first time in a week, turn a tight embrace into a wrestler's tussle within seconds.
Just that Y chromosome kicking in.
I'm used to it. Been dealing with a houseful of men and upraised toilet seats for almost nine years now. Except for the cat, I'm the only female around here. The only one who understands why 15 pairs of shoes are necessary. Why six purses grace the hall closet. Why the first scent of fall sends me scurrying to the mall.
So with this, my third pregnancy, I was hopeful that the law of averages would kick in and bring me my daughter.
Not to be.
According to last week's ultrasound, I'm fielding the third in a growing basketball team of boys.
Goodbye Barbies. Hello Batman.
I know, I know. That sounds sexist. Boys can play with Barbie too.
Yeah, right. And your kids' names are Sarah and Melanie, you say?
Listen, I'm a staunch feminist. But I was one of three daughters in my family. Until I had sons, I was firmly convinced that nurture, not nature, would determine a child's personality. And that with a gender-neutral upbringing, kids would show strong male and female traits.
I was wrong.
My two best friends have daughters, so I'm around little girls a lot. And I can unequivocally say that boys are louder, messier, rougher and more rambunctious than girls. This doesn't make them any worse or better than girls. Just different.
And it was that difference I craved.
Doll houses instead of snakes. Ribbons instead of rugby stripes. French braids instead of crew cuts. Ballet instead of baseball. Or in addition to baseball.
My dream of a daughter didn't start from any lack of love for my sons. I adore them. And I'm learning how to be a mother of boys. I can yell my lungs out with the best of them at soccer and baseball games. Even occasionally throw a mean pass. Although I draw the line at getting to know the Chicago Cubs' lineup or reading the sports page.
I wanted a daughter because I wanted someone like me. Whose body would develop like mine. Who would understand about being a woman. About the melancholy that sometimes falls over us - for no reason. The necessity of makeup and perfume. The intense craving for quiet and solitude. The multiple bathroom breaks on car trips.
Someone who would understand why every decision, every thought, has to be talked and talked and talked through. Who loves to gossip. And giggle.
Even the boys were looking forward to a little girl. The oldest, who at first balked at the idea of a girl - ``I don't want Barbie dolls all over the house'' - eventually mellowed and allowed as to how it would be ``neat.''
The youngest, who calls the oldest ``Brother,'' had already picked out a name for the new baby: ``Sister.''
Sigh.
I guess we'll have to tell him that ``Brother: The Sequel'' is on the way. by CNB